


Secrecy

by pherede



Series: Livewrites [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smut snippet from a livewrite prompt: Thranduil takes Thorin to the deep secret tunnels under Mirkwood, where nobody can hear. Porn without plot but with a little conflict for spice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrecy

This time the audience is called late at night, rather than at twilight, and three guards come for Thorin instead of five. His skin tightens; all deviations from the pattern are deadly for a prisoner, every change a possible execution.  
  
Nor do they approach the throne room. Instead, descending through the tunnels, the guards peel away one by one, each taking a station as if waiting for his return. Or his guard’s. Will he be tortured? Thorin tightens his fists in their bonds; metallic fear floods his mouth.  
  
The final guard unsettles his sword in its sheath, but does not draw it, and under his hood Thorin can see nothing of his face; but finally, after many turns, the guard stops him, and with his first word Thorin reels under the weight of recognition.  
  
“I offer you a bargain,” says the Elvenking, drawing back his hood, wide alien eyes fixed on Thorin’s face with something like amusement.  
  
A bargain. It can be nothing Thorin wants, even with the boiling conflict of his feelings about Thranduil offering so many possibilities. _Three fingers from my axe hand_ , he tells himself. _Hostages, from among my companions. Half the treasure of Erebor._  
  
“I do not intend to free you,” says Thranduil. “I suspect that your errand is more dangerous than even my advisors believe, and that you may bring ruin upon us all. Certainly since you entered the forest the dark mind at Dol Goldur has been more active, and though I do not believe you evil-- for I have seen your face when you were scarcely a child at your grandfather’s knee, and I can see the difference between rage and wickedness.”  
  
“What do you want,” says Thorin, his throat dry.  
  
“Secrecy,” says Thranduil, and his lips tilt into what is nearly a smile.  
  
“Do you intend me harm?”  
  
“On the contrary,” with which Thranduil approaches him, his presence both lovely and terrifying, backing Thorin-- who is a king, who never gives ground-- into the wall and drawing nearer still until his scent overwhelms and drowns. “I saw you, as I said, when you were young; and what I saw then is by no means now diminished; and what I propose, Thorin, is that you allow me this experiment, to bring you pleasure and to see that pleasure unfold.”  
  
Thorin is gasping. _No_ , he tells himself, _your captor, your enemy_ , but he can see the texture of Thranduil’s cheek so close to his own in the torchlight, and what comes out of his mouth is a groan.  
  
“Will you let me,” says Thranduil, breath scalding Thorin’s ear, and if words have run dry Thorin’s body is still speaking for him (it seems) and he nods violently, shamelessly, forgetting stature and enmity.  
  
This is how Thorin finds himself pressed against the stone, half slumped, arms still tied and legs still shackled, while Thranduil lowers himself in a graceful fold until he is kneeling low upon the floor before him and thrusts his long fingers into Thorin’s trousers.  
  
Thranduil draws him out, pushing his trousers down and back to expose Thorin’s cock-- which is hard and aching already, a disastrous physical evidence of his weakness-- and the thatch of his hair, the lower slope of his belly, the first swells of his thighs. It is more naked than he has ever imagined being, only this sliver of skin visible, but to his greatest foe save the dragon itself; and he wants it so much that he practically begs, keening noises and helpless twitches of the hips.  
  
They do not have much time, it seems, for Thranduil is the type to tease and torment, but instead he leans in and breathes, taking in Thorin’s scent for only the space of a breath before his tongue extends to taste. And no aimless lapping for him; the rough wet skin of his tongue is forceful, curling and stroking, tracing the crown and following the vein, plumbing Thorin’s slit and flicking along his foreskin.  
  
Thorin goes weak, though he tries to hide his shaking. Heat and smooth breath cascade over him; Thranduil’s hand wraps around the base of his cock, neither tight nor stroking, only a heavy reminder, and his other hand grips Thorin by the back of the thigh as his mouth sinks _finally_ around the engorged head of Thorin’s cock.  
  
Too much, even this bit; Thorin feels himself rock forward and his body tighten into something approaching orgasm, not _there_ by any means but seeing his ruin on the horizon. He knows that Thranduil can see, can possibly even _taste_ how reactive his body is now. Elf ears can certainly catch the thrum of his racing heart, and every twitch of his thighs betrays him.  
  
But Thranduil does not tease for long, even though he cannot resist resting still with only the head of Thorin’s cock jerking on his tongue for a few moments. Soon he takes more, his tongue rises and strokes the underside, his lips devour until they meet his closed hand about Thorin’s length. And then, with Thorin struggling not to thrust into his mouth, with Thorin’s hands grasping helplessly from their bound deprivation, longing to find hair and skin, to feel _anything_ \-- then Thranduil’s cheeks hollow and his hand lowers to roll the skin of Thorin’s ballocks gently, and he swallows twice convulsively around Thorin’s length and with a moment of profound dismay and wild lust Thorin feels himself drawn into the Elvenking’s throat.  
  
If there was heat before, it was a forge beside the fires of the deep places of the earth; Thorin is aflame, threads of desperate need drawing tight throughout his body, pulled from him by the suction and motion and heat around his cock. “Ah,” he says, “if you-- you’ll make me--”  
  
Thranduil draws back for a moment to breathe; there are tears in his eyes, but his lips turn up in a wry and wicked smile, and when he pulls away-- leaving Thorin groaning, as if pierced to the heart with a blade-- there is laughter in his voice. “Make you _what_ ,” he says, and then his mouth descends again, and Thorin struggles to warn him (because even if his voice is gone over now to broken moans and stuttered pleas, it seems unthinkable to defile that perfect mouth).  
  
But Thranduil will not be sated with anything less than Thorin’s complete destruction, and as Thorin’s ballocks rise and tighten and the first implacable pulses of orgasm well up in Thorin’s belly, Thranduil _moans_ around him, long and low, before swallowing him to the root, white skin of his face pressed to dark curling hair, sensitive skin below his lip against the taut shape of Thorin’s ballocks.  
  
And Thorin comes as if he is dying, as if spilling lifeblood instead of seed, groaning like a victim on a battlefield as he fills the swallowing heat of Thranduil’s throat. Around him his voice echoes wordless from the most deserted tunnels below Mirkwood’s caves, and the stone is unyielding beneath his clutching hands, and Thranduil sucks him until he is almost too sensitive to bear it, and finally pulls away gasping, licking his lips.  
  
Thranduil, to his credit, does not smirk at him, does not demand due reciprocation; it seems that with Thorin’s undoing his desires-- curiosity, voyeurism, humiliation, Thorin can only guess-- are satiated, and he dresses his captive swiftly. Thorin finds himself still reeling as he is herded up the hall, legs shaking; Thranduil says nothing else to him, and soon they rejoin the other guards, and Thorin is delivered to his cell with only an hour passed in the dark, knowing that what he has done-- what he has allowed Thranduil to do to him-- will be his secret to the grave.  
  
A treasure, a thing that is his own, even if there is shame; a memory he will polish in his mind like a jewel, and carry in his breast like a flame. In the morning they will argue again about freedom and secrecy; and Thorin will know, and burn.


End file.
